


A Doctor's Lot

by Joy_in_the_House



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Fainting, Gen, James Wilson Needs a Hug, Whumptober 2019
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-03
Updated: 2019-10-03
Packaged: 2020-11-22 21:40:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20881097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Joy_in_the_House/pseuds/Joy_in_the_House
Summary: A doctor's lot was to save the world. James Wilson especially. But to care for those like he does, he often forgoes even caring for himself.





	A Doctor's Lot

**Author's Note:**

> For Whumptober 2019.  
Prompts #1 "Shaky Hands" & #20 "Trembling"  
Prompt list gathered from here: https://whumptober2019.tumblr.com/post/187356400823/october-approaches-and-so-does-whumptober-2019 (copy+paste into browser)

Work seemed to be the bane of Wilson’s existence; and perhaps even his undoing, at least today.

James Wilson, MD, Head of Oncology, Boy Wonder. He worked a nine to five job that more often than not began at six and extended close to ten at night.

He didn’t mind. Usually.

Today was an exception, as he was called in for an emergency page at four a.m. and sat with his patient and her husband as she breathed her last.

By six a.m. he was in his office, coffee by his side, but untouched. There were files that had to be written, reports to be revised, meeting minutes he had to review. The phone rang, but he ignored it. He needed to do something productive.

By ten a.m. he was still working, and he was startled with a knock on his door.

He bit his lip as he weighed the options in his mind, looking between his work and the door. He decided as the second heavy knock startled him once more.

“Come in,” he finally shouted, the interruption frustrating him, even as he returned to typing.

He expected the familiar _step-thump _of House, or even the _click click _of Cuddy, but when the wholly unfamiliar steps stopped in front of his desk he looked up in mild surprise.

“I need a consult.” Chase threw the file, and it landed with a soft thud on Wilson’s desk. He stared at it, mildly resenting the younger man.

“Why am I your con-“

“Just look at the file.” Chase was certainly…. blunt today.

Wilson silently criticized his shoes in return as he opened the file.

\--

By eleven a.m., he had finished with Chase and had settled back into his complacent little cycle of ignoring the phone, typing his reports, and trying to stay awake.

Without thinking, he reached for his coffee and took a sip, wincing at the chilled liquid. He set it back down and pushed it aside, turning back to his screen.

“What sounds like I think it’s a good idea without saying it’s a good idea?” He spoke the empty office at large, and was met with unfriendly silence.

At that exact moment, his pager beeped, and he fished it from his hip pocket.

_ER – 911._

With less than a thought, he had jumped up, ripped his lab coat from the stand and slammed his door behind him.

\--

By 2 p.m., he had returned to his office and had slumped into his chair, staring at his hands. They were shaking.

The ER had been short-staffed, with three incoming ambulances at the same time. He had stayed by patients’ sides, sat with families, and even stayed by the side of one of his young patients, who had been caught in the car accident on the way to his remission appointment. He wore his humanity on his sleeve, was unafraid to show the emotion that he felt and knew his patients felt. When the young teen cried at the unfairness and injustice of the accident, so had he. Within three-quarters of an hour, Wilson had been the only one still alive to mourn the loss as the tears dripped slowly from his bowed head to his hand.

Things like that happened. Happened far more often than it should. He was used to it happening, as horrible as it sounds.

And yet it did not hurt less.

There was a pounding on the door, and he looked up as House barged through.

“Lunch time, Wilson. You owe me. Let’s go.”

Wilson knew he had stood up. He knew he had walked from his office to the hospital cafeteria, had paid for the food, but he didn’t remember doing it. He knew as surely that he was James Wilson, MD, 38-year-old department head at Princeton-Plainsboro. But he couldn’t remember.

The fact he couldn’t remember concerned him, and as he thought about it, tried to remedy the gap in his memory, he stopped moving.

House turned from where he was five steps ahead of Wilson and stared at the oncologist. The man was frozen, staring at the tray in his hands as if he didn’t know how it got there. His hands were shaking.

“Wilson, we’ll lose our spot,” he complained, shaking his head when there was no indication of Wilson having heard him.

“Wilson.” He tried again, hoping for at least an acknowledgement.

Nothing.

He glanced again at the hands holding the tray and realized the tray would crash to the floor. He moved forwards to grab it and –

The tray smashed on the tiles, and not even the clatter was noticed by the man who had dropped it.

House forwent the now useless tray and moved closer to Wilson, who was, upon further inspection, trembling.

“Wilson,” he tried once more, hoping to at least warn the man he was approaching.

Wilson’s head turned towards him, and House could see his lips move soundlessly as the colour drained from the young man’s face.

“Hey, Jimmy.” House’s voice was uncharacteristically gentle, and he reached out a steady hand towards the shaky one. He had just found his pulse point when Wilson listed sideways.

“Wilson, hey!” House gripped him with one hand, trying to keep them both from crashing to the floor. Taub was the first one there, taking the now limp Wilson from House’s grip and lowering him to the floor. He stripped his lab coat, balling it under Wilson’s head, and focussed on checking his pulse. He looked up at his boss.

“He looked out of it earlier, pale, shaking,” House tossed back, reading the duckling’s face. He kept his own eyes focused on Wilson, mind taking in the pallor of his skin and light sheen of sweat on his forehead and added them to the mental differential.

Taub mentally noted the pulse and moved on to routine checks while running the information through his mind.

“He was going the entire time in the ER,” Taub muttered at large. “Was he just going to eat now?”

“I’d assume so. But I won’t. When I assume, I’m an ass.” House’s instinct response to any stress was sarcasm, no matter how inappropriate.

Taub pushed his penlight back in his pocket and sat back on his heels as Wilson stirred. His eyes stayed closed, so Taub took it upon himself to rub his knuckles firmly down his sternum, which certainly got the man’s attention. Wilson’s eyes flew open, and he batted Taub’s hands away groggily.

“Let me up,” he groused, still drowsy.

Taub shook his head.

“Neuro checks, you’re a doctor, you twit,” he returned, getting a small smile from Wilson, penlight back out.

“I’m fine,” Wilson said quietly between Taub’s short commands. “I was up at three thirty, just kept going. Didn’t eat.”

“Water, coffee? Anything?” Taub pressed and was met with a small head shake.

“Squeeze both my hands at the same time, hard as you can.” Wilson complied without fuss.

“You need food, and water,” Taub chided gently as he finally helped Wilson sit up.

“You’ll kill yourself at this pace.”

Both men looked up at House’s acidic barb.

“It’s a one-off, I’ll be normal soon,” Wilson muttered, unsure of who he was trying to reassure.

Taub hid a smile. “Let’s get you to your office, away from eyes, and we’ll talk there.” He propped Wilson up with an arm around his waist, steadying him, and looked over his shoulder at House.

“Get more food, in a bag, meet us up there.”

Wilson knew Taub helped him upstairs, past Cuddy’s wondering eyes, past the endless doors, into his office and onto the couch. He knew it. And he remembered it as he sunk gratefully into the couch, accepting the bottle of water Taub handed him, letting the other man check his pulse once more as he fielded the other doctor’s remarks.

He really needed to slow down. He knew. He had to drink more water. He was aware. Regular mealtimes, or at least three meals. You’re a doctor yourself, like that’s going to happen. Take care of yourself. He laughed, a bitter note.

They were doctors. They always saved everyone but themselves. It was a doctor’s lot.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope this kicks off an angsty Whumptober!  
Let me know down below if there's any prompts you want to see for sure.


End file.
